A    LONELY    FLUTE 


A    LONELY    FLUTE 


BY 


ODELL   SHEPARD 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,    1917,    BY   ODELL    SHEPARD 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  April  79/7 


TO 


38500G 


And  now  '/  was  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel" 's  song 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

COLERIDGE. 


CONTENTS 

PROEM  3 

LAUS    MARINE  5 

RECOLLECTION  7 

NIGHTFALL  9 

A    BALLAD    OF    LOVE    AND    DEATH  II 

BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE  15 

WASTE  1 6 

THE    WATCHER    IN    THE    SKY  22 

HOUSEMATES  23 

POMP    AND    CIRCUMSTANCE  24 

THE    HIDDEN    WEAVER  25 

VANITAS  27 

SPENSER'S  "FAERIE  QUEENE"  30 

MORNING  ROAD  SONG  33 

EVENING  ROAD  SONG  34 

WINDY  MORNING  35 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THOREAU  37 


CONTENTS 

EARTH— BORN  ~g 

"WHENCE    COMETH    MY    HELP "  ^l 

UNITY  44 

VISTAS  .^ 

A    NUN  48 

LOVE    AMONG    THE    CLOVER  40 

CERTAIN    AMERICAN    POETS  ct 

THE  SINGER'S  QUEST  r2 

DEAD    MAGDALEN  r. 

THE    ADVENTURER  ^^ 

THE    GOLDFINCH  ^j 

ORIOLES  ,g 

BY    A    MOUNTAIN    STREAM  6  I 

APRIL  ^^ 

A    CHAPEL    BY    THE    SEA  64 

EPHEMEROS  55 

WANDERLUST  fcg 

THE    IDEAL  -Q 

THE    FIRST    CHRISTIAN  7I 


A   LONELY   FLUTE 


A   LONELY    FLUTE 

PROEM 

BEYOND  the  pearly  portal, 

Beyond  the  last  dim  star, 
Pale,  perfect,  and  immortal, 

The  eternal  visions  are, 
That  never  any  rapture 

Of  sorrow  or  of  mirth 
Of  any  song  shall  capture 

To  dwell  with  men  on  earth. 

Many  a  strange  and  tragic 

Old  sorrow  still  is  mute 
And  melodies  of  magic 

Still  slumber  in  the  flute, 
Many  a  mighty  vision 

Has  caught  my  yearning  eye 
And  swept  with  calm  derision 

In  robes  of  splendor  by. 
3 


PROEM 

The  rushing  susurration 

Of  some  eternal  wing 
Beats  mighty  variation 

Through  all  the  song  I  sing ; 
The  vague,  deep-mouthed  commotion 

From  its  ancestral  home 
Booms  like  the  shout  of  ocean 

Across  the  crumbling  foam ; 
And  these  low  lyric  whispers 

Make  answer  wistfully 
As  sea-shells .  .  .  dreaming  lispers 

Beside  the  eternal  sea. 


LAUS   MARINE 

THERE  is  a  name  like  some  deep  melody 

Hallowed  by  sundown,  delicate  as  the  plash 

Of  lonely  waves  on  solitary  lakes 

And  rounded  as  the  sudden-bursting  bloom 

Of  bold,  deep-throated  notes  in  a  midnight  cloud 

When  shadowy  belfries  far  away  roll  out 

Across  the  dark  their  avalanche  of  sound. 

It  is  a  wild  voice  lost  in  the  wail  of  the  wind ; 
The  silvery-twinkling  plectrum  of  the  rain 
Plays  in  the  poplar  tree  no  other  tune 
And  pines  intone  it  softly  as  a  prayer 
In  leafy  litanies. 

The  name  is  raised 

Even  to  God's  ear  from  ancient  arches  dim 
With  caverned  twilight  and  dull  altar  smoke 
Where  tapers  weave  athwart  the  azure  haze 
Innumerable  pageantries  of  dusk. 

Low-voiced  and  soft-eyed  women  must  they  live 
Who  bear  that  holy  name.  And  now  for  one 
5 


LAUS  MARINE 

Time  has  no  other  honor  than  to  be 
The  meaning  of  an  unremembered  rhyme, 
The  breath  of  a  forgotten  singer's  song. 

(October ',  1903) 


RECOLLECTION 

I  MUST  forget  awhile  the  mellow  flutes 
And  all  the  lyric  wizardry  of  strings ; 

The  fragile  clarinet, 
Tremulous  over  meadows  rich  with  dawn, 

Must  knock  against  my  vagrant  heart 

And  throb  and  cry  no  more. 

For  I  am  shaken  by  the  loveliness 

And  lights  and  laughter  and  beguiling  song 

Of  all  this  siren  world ; 
The  regal  beauty  of  women,  round  on  round, 

The  swift,  lithe  slenderness  of  girls, 

And  children's  loyal  eyes, 

Hill  rivers  and  the  lilac  fringe  of  seas 
Lazily  plunging,  glow  of  city  nights 

And  faces  in  the  glow  — 
These  things  have  stolen  my  heart  away,  I  lie 

Parcelled  abroad  in  sound  and  hue, 

Dispersed  through  all  I  love. 
7 


RECOLLECTION 

I  must  go  far  away  to  a  still  place 

And  draw  the  shadows  down  across  my  eyes 

And  wait  and  listen  there 
For  wings  vibrating  from  beyond  the  stars, 

Wide-ranging,  swiftly  winnowing  wings 

Bearing  me  back  mine  own. 

So  soon,  now,  I  shall  lie  deep  hidden  away 
From  sound  or  sight,  with  hearing  strangely  dull 

And  heavy-lidded  eyes,  — 
'T  is  time,  O  passionate  soul,  for  me  to  go 

Some  far,  hill-folded  road  apart 

And  learn  the  ways  of  peace. 


NIGHTFALL 

IN  a  crumbling  glory  sets 

The  unhastening  sun ; 
The  fishers  draw  their  shining  nets; 

The  day  is  done. 

Across  the  ruddy  wine 

That  brims  the  sea 

Black  boats  drag  shoreward  through  the 
brine 

Dreamily, 

And  dark  against  the  glow 

Firing  the  west, 
By  three  and  two  the  great  gulls  go 

Seaward  to  rest. 

Beneath  the  gradual  host 

Of  heaven,  pale 
And  glimmering,  rides  a  dim  sea-ghost, 

A  large  slow  sail. 
9 


NIGHTFALL 

Slowly  she  cometh  on 

Day's  last  faint  breath, 
Drifting  across  the  water,  wan 

And  gray  as  death. 

From  what  far-lying  land 

Swimmeth  thy  keel, 
Dim  ship  ?  And  what  mysterious  hand 

Is  at  thy  wheel  ? 

What  far-borne  news  for  me  ? 

What  vast  release  ? 
Quiet  is  in  my  heart,  and  on  the  sea 

Peace. 

(Balboa,  California} 


A  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  AND 
DEATH 

SHE  winded  on  the  castle  horn, 
She  clamored  long  and  bold, 

For  she  was  way-spent  and  forlorn 
And  she  was  sore  a-cold. 

And  she  stood  lonely  in  the  snow. 

Vague  quiet  filled  the  air.  .  .  . 
From  heaven's  roof  looked  down  aloof 

The  stars,  with  steady  stare. 

She  heard  the  droning  drift  of  snow 
And  the  wolf-wind  on  the  hill. .  .  . 

No  other  sound.  .  .  .    For  leagues  around 
The  night  was  very  still. 

She  cried  aloud  in  sudden  fright, 
"Open!  Warder  ho! 
Here  is  a  pilgrim  guest  to-night 
Who  can  no  farther  go." 
11 


A  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

The  steady  beat  of  mailed  feet 

In  angry  answer  rang 
Along  the  floor.  The  castle  door 

Gave  in  with  iron  clang 

And  the  warder  strode  into  his  tower 
And  saw  her  standing  there 

Weary,  like  a  storm-tossed  flower, 
And,  like  an  angel,  fair. 

"  Here  is  no  lodging  for  the  night, 

No  bread  and  wine  for  thee, 
No  ingle  bright,  no  warm  firelight, 
No  cheerful  company. 

"  Here  is  no  inn  nor  any  kin 
Of  thine  to  harbor  guest, 
Nor  thee  to  house  will  any  rouse 
Out  of  his  ancient  rest." 

Unearthly,  dark,  nocturnal  things 
With  faint  and  furtive  stir 

Hovered  on  feather-muffled  wings 
Round  the  fair  face  of  her 
12 


A  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

As  she  made  answer  wearily : 
"  Ah !  open  now  the  gate. 
Though  I  was  fleet  with  willing  feet, 
I  have  come  very  late. 

"  Yea,  though  I  came  through  flood  and  flame, 

Through  tempest,  flood,  and  fire, 
And  left  the  wind  to  trail  behind 
The  wings  of  my  desire, 

"  And  though  I  prayed  the  stars  for  aid 

And  seas  for  wind  and  tide, 
And  though  God  gave  me  goodly  pave 
And  ran,  Himself,  beside  .  .  . 

u  Aye,  though  my  feet  have  been  thus  fleet, 

Unto  one  heart,  I  know, 
Whose  sleep  is  still  beneath  the  hill, 
My  coming  has  been  slow." 

And  he  bent  gently  down  above, 

A  soft  light  in  his  eye  .  .  . 
"  Is  not  the  holy  name  of  Love 
The  name  men  call  thee  by  ? 
13 


A  BALLAD  OF  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

"  Ah,  Love,  I  know  thee,  for  thy  face 

Is  other-worldly  fair  ; 
A  great  light  of  some  heavenly  place 
Is  on  thy  shining  hair. 

"  But  thou,  Love,  who  canst  tread  the  stars, 

Whose  seat  is  by  God's  throne, 
Why  wilt  thou  bend  thee  to  the  dust 
And  walk  the  dark  alone  ? 

"  Thy  ways  are  not  our  mortal  ways. 

Hast  thou  nought  else  to  do 
Than  wander  with  thy  dream-lit  face 
Our  glimmering  darkness  through  ? " 

But  Love  made  answer,  and  her  voice 

Was  as  God's  voice  to  him ; 
As  tall  and  fair  she  towered  there 

As  heavenly  seraphim  .  .  . 

44  Open  the  gate!  for  Love  shall  dwell 

Even  among  the  dead 
And  in  the  darkest  deeps  of  hell ! 
Open  !  For  God  hath  said !  " 


BIRDS    OF  PASSAGE 

DROPPING  round  and  clear  across  the  still  miles, 
Ringing  down  the  midnight's  marble  stair, 

A  bird's  cry  is  falling  through  the  darkness, 
Falling  from  the  fields  of  upper  air. 

Through  the  rainy  fragrance  of  the  April  night 

Slow  it  falls,  circling  in  the  fall, 
And  all  the  sheeted  lake  of  sleeping  silences 

Is  troubled  by  the  solitary  call. 

Each  human  heart  awake  knows  the  loneliness 

Of  that  strange  voice  clear  and  far, 
That  lost  voice  searching  through  the  midnight, 

That  lonely  star  calling  to  a  star. 

Old   memories  are  thronging  through  the  dark 
ness  .  .  . 

Slow  tears  are  blinding  sleepless  eyes  .  .  . 
O  lonely  hearts  remembering  in  the  midnight ! 

O  dark  and  empty  skies ! 


15 


WASTE 

RELUCTANT,  groping  fog  crept  gray  and  cold 
Up  from  the  fields  where  now  the  guns  were  still; 
Far  off  the  thundering  surge  of  battle  rolled 
And  darkness  brooded  on  the  quiet  hill; 
Clearly,  across  the  listening  night,  the  shrill 
And  rhythmic  cry  of  a  lonely  cricket  fell 
On  ears  long  deafened  by  the  scream  of  shot  and 
shell. 

And  there  were  two  who  listened  wistfully 
To  that  glad  voice,  that  sad  last  voice  of  all, 
Who  on  the  morrow  after  reveille 
Would  make  no  answer  to  the  muster  call ; 
Others  would  eat  their  mess,  others  would  fall 
When  the  lines  formed  again  into  their  places, 
And  soon  their  marching  comrades  would  forget 
their  faces. 

One  moaned  a  little  and  the  other  turned 
Painfully  sidewise,  peering  up  the  bare 
16 


WASTE 

Shell-furrowed  slope.  Then,  while  his  deep  wound 

burned, 

He  crawled,  slow  inch  by  weary  inch,  to  where 
The  boy  lay,  —  young,  he  thought,  and  strangely 

fair. 

u  You  see,  I  came,"  he  said.  "  It  was  a  wrench. 
I  thought  I  'd  die.  Let 's  have  a  light  here.  What ! 

You  're  French ! 

u  No  matter  .  .  .  we  '11  be  going  pretty  soon  .  .  . 
Dying  's  a  lonesome  business  at  the  best, 
And  when  there  's  nothing  but  a  ghastly  moon 
And  fog  for  company,  I  lose  my  zest. 
There  's  a  girl  somewhere  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  you  know 

the  rest. 

I  'm  glad  I  came.  It 's  hand  in  hand  now,  brother. 
I  think  I  laid  you  here.  I  wish  't  had  been  an 
other. 

" 1  never  meant  it,  and  you  did  n't  mean 
For  me  this  ugly  gash  along  my  side. 
Something  has  pushed  us  on.   Our  slate  is  clean. 
And  long  and  long  after  we  two  have  died 
Some  learnedest  of  doctors  will  decide 
17 


WASTE 

What  thing  it  was.  But  we  ...  we  '11  never  know, 
Our  business  now  's  to    help  make  next  year's 
harvest  grow. 

"  You  've  been  at  school  ?  College  de  France !  You 

know 
Next  year  I   should  have  heard  your  Bergson 

there,  — 

Greatest  since  Hegel.  Think  of  Haeckel,  though, 
At  my  own  Jena !  Mighty  men  they  were. 
Not  mighty  enough  for  what  they  had  to  bear. 
They  read  and  wrote  and  taught,  but  you  and  I, 
How  have  we  profited  at  last  ?  Well,  here  we  lie, 

"  If  I  had  known  you  by  the  silver  Rhine, 
That  dreamy  country  where  I  had  my  birth, 
The  land  of  golden  corn  and  golden  wine 
And  surely,   I  think,  the  world's   most    lovely 

earth,  — 
I  should  have  loved  you,  brother,  and  known  your 

worth. 

But  you  were  born  beside  the  racing  Rhone. 
Ah,  yes,  that  made  the  difference.  That  thing 

alone. 

18 


WASTE 

*'We   might   have   fronted    this   world's   stormy 

weather  f 

Hand  clasped  in  hand  and  seeing  eye  to  eye. 
What  was  there  we  could  not  have  done  together  ? 
Who  dares  to  say  we  should  have  feared  to  die, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  standing,  you  and  I  ? 
But  now  you  are  slain  by  me,  your  unknown 

friend. 
I  die  by  your  unknowing  hand.  This  .  .  .  this  is 

the  end ! 

u  And  all  the  love  that  might  have  been  is  blown 
Far  off  like  clouds  that  fade  across  the  blue; 
The  game  is  over  and  the  night  shuts  down, 
Blotting  the  little  dreams  of  me  and  you 
And  all  our  hope  of  all  we  longed  to  do. 
But  courage,  comrade  !  It 's  not  hard  to  die. 
It 's  not  so  lonely  now.   If  only  we  know  why ! " 

The  fog-damp  folded  closer  round  the  hill 
And  stillness  deepened,  but  the  cricket's  song 
Tore  at  the  heavy  hem  of  silence  still  — 
One  small   voice    left   of  love   in   a  world  of 
wrong. 

19 


WASTE 

A  few  dim  stars  looked  down.  The  yelling  throng 
Of  guns  had  passed  beyond  the  mountain's  brow 
When  once  again  he  spoke,  but  slowly,  faintlier  now. 

1  Something  discovered  that  it  didn't  need  us  — 
Me  in  the  Fatherland  and  you  in  France. 
We  were  less  worth  than  what  it  took  to  feed  us, 
And  so  life  gave  us  only  a  little  glance. 
It 's  true  to  say  we  never  had  a  chance. 
It 's  like  this  fog,  around,  above,  below. 
Reach  out  your  hand  to  me.   Good-night.  We  Ml 
never  know." 

And  then  they  lay  so  still  they  seemed  asleep, 
For  death  was  near  and  they  had  little  pain. 
The  midnight  did  not  hear  them  moan  or  weep 
For  life  and  love  and  gladness  lost  in  vain 
And  faces  they  would  never  see  again,  — 
Old  friends,  old  lovers.  All  seemed  at  a  distance. 
The  minutes  crept  and  crept.  They  made  no  strong 
resistance. 

They  only  lay  and  looked  up  at  the  stars, 
Feeling  they  had  not  known  how  fair  they  were. 
20 


WASTE 

I  think  their  hearts  were  far  from  those  loud  wars 
As  they  lay  listening  to  the  cricket's  chirr 
Until  it  faded  to  a  drowsy  blur, 
Dwindled,  and  died,  lost  in  the  distant  roar 
Of  waves  that  plunged  and  broke  on  some  eternal 
shore.  < 


THE   WATCHER   IN   THE    SKY 

SHE  has  grown  pale  and  spectral  with  our  wounds 

And  she  is  worn  with  memories  of  woe 

Older  than  Karnak.   Multitudinous  feet 

Of  all  the  phantom  armies  of  the  world 

Resounding  down  the  hollow  halls  of  time, 

Have  kept  their  far-off  rumor  in  her  ear. 

For  she  was  old  when  Nineveh  and  Tyre 

And  Baalbec  of  the  waste  went  down  in  blood ; 

Pompey  and  Tamburlaine  and  Genghis  Khan 

Are  dreams  of  only  yesternight  to  her. 

And  still  she  keeps,  chained  to  a  loathsome  thing, 

Her  straining,  distant  paces  up  and  down 

The  vaulted  cell,  but  wistful  of  an  end 

When  all  our  swarm  of  shuddering  life  shall  drop 

Like  some  dead  cooling  cinder  down  the  void, 

Leaving  her  clean,  in  blessed  barrenness. 

(August,  1914) 


22 


HOUSEMATES 

THIS  little  flickering  planet 

Is  such  a  lonely  spark 
Among  the  million  mighty  fires 

That  blaze  in  the  outer  dark, 

The  homeless  waste  about  us 
Leaves  such  a  narrow  span 

To  this  dim  lodging  for  a  night, 
This  bivouac  of  man, 

That  all  the  heavens  wonder 

In  all  their  alien  stars 
To  see  us  wreck  our  fellowship 

In  mad  fraternal  wars. 


POMP   AND   CIRCUMSTANCE 

WITH  a  shout  of  trumpets  and  roll  of  drums, 
Down  the  road  the  music  comes 
And  all  my  heart  leaps  up  to  greet 
The  steady  tread  of  the  marching  feet. 

Blare  of  bugle  and  shriek  of  fife  ... 
This  is  the  triumphing  wine  of  life  ! 
My  senses  reel  and  my  glad  heart  sings, 
My  spirit  soars  on  jubilant  wings. 

Fluttering  banners  and  gonfalons 
Cover  with  beauty  the  murderous  guns; 
7T  is  sweet  to  live,  't  were  great  to  die 
With  this  vast  music  marching  by. 

For  all  my  heart  leaps  up  to  greet 
The  steady  tread  of  the  marching  feet 
When  down  the  road  the  music  comes 
With  a  shout  of  trumpets  and  roll  of  drums. 


24 


THE   HIDDEN   WEAVER 

THERE  where  he  sits  in  the  cold,  in  the  gloom, 
Of  his  far-away  place  by  his  thundering  loom, 
He  weaves  on  the  shuttles  of  day  and  of  night 
The  shades  of  our  sorrow  and  shapes  of  delight. 
He  has  wrought  him  a  glimmering  garment  to  fling 
Over  the  sweet  swift  limbs  of  the  Spring, 
He  has  woven  a  fabric  of  wonder  to  be 
For  a  blue  and  a  billowy  robe  to  the  sea, 
He  has  fashioned  in  sombre  funereal  dyes 
A  tissue  of  gold  for  the  midnight  skies. 

But  sudden  the  woof  turns  all  to  red. 

Has  he  lost  his  craft  ?    Has  he  snapped  his  thread  ? 

Sudden  the  web  all  sanguine  runs. 

Does  he  hear  the  yell  of  the  thirsting  guns  ? 

While  the  scarlet  crimes  and  the  crimson  sins 

Grow  from  the  dizzying  outs  and  ins 

Of  the  shuttle  that  spins,  does  he  see  it  and  feel  ? 

Or  is  he  the  slave  of  a  tyrannous  wheel  ? 

Inscrutable  faces,  mysterious  eyes, 
Are  watching  him  out  of  the  drifting  skies; 
25 


THE  HIDDEN   WEAVER 

Exiles  of  chaos  crowd  through  the  gloom 

Of  the  uttermost  cold  to  that  thundering  room 

And  whisper  and  peer  through  the  dusk  to  mark 

What  thing  he  is  weaving  there  in  the  dark. 

Will  he  leave  the  loom  that  he  won  from  them 

And  rend  his  fabric  from  hem  to  hem  ? 

Is  he  weaving  with  daring  and  skill  sublime 

A  wonderful  winding-sheet  for  time  ? 

Ah,  but  he  sits  in  a  darkling  place, 

Hiding  his  hands,  hiding  his  face, 

Hiding  his  art  behind  the  shine 

Of  the  web  that  he  weaves  so  long  and  fine. 

Loudly  the  great  wheel  hums  and  rings 

And  we  hear  not  even  the  song  that  he  sings. 

Over  the  whirr  of  the  shuttles  and  all 

The  roar  and  the  rush,  does  he  hear  when  we  call  ? 

Only  the  colors  that  grow  and  glow 

Swift  as  the  hurrying  shuttles  go, 

Only  the  figures  vivid  or  dim 

That  flow  from  the  hastening  hands  of  him, 

Only  the  fugitive  shapes  are  we, 

Wrought  in  the  web  of  eternity. 


VANITAS 

THREE  queens  of  old  in  Yemen 

Beside  forgotten  streams, 
Three  tall  and  stately  women, 

Dreamt  three  great  stately  dreams 
Of  love  and  power  and  pleasure  and  conquering 
quinqueremes. 

They  dreamt  of  love  that  squandered 

All  Egypt  for  a  kiss, 
They  dreamt  of  fame  and  pondered 

On  proud  Persepolis, 

But  most  they  yearned  for  the  wild  delights  of  pale 
Semiramis. 

They  had  for  lords  and  lovers 

Dark  kings  of  Araby, 
Corsairs  and  wild  sea-rovers 

From  many  an  alien  lea, — 

Black- bearded  men  who  loved  and  fought  and  won 
them  cruelly. 

27 


VANITAS 

They  reared  a  dreamlike  palace 

Stately  and  white  and  tall 
As  a  lily's  ivory  chalice 

Where  every  echoing  hall 

Was  rumorous  with  rustling  leaves  and  plashing 
water's  fall. 

There  to  the  tinkling  zither 

And  passionate  guitars 
They  footed  hence  and  hither 
Beneath  the  breathless  stars, 

From  bare  round  breast  and  shoulder  waved  their 
glimmering  cymars. 

Theirs  was  an  empire's  treasure 

Of  gems  and  rich  attire, 
Love  had  they  beyond  measure 

And  wine  that  burnt  like  fire; 
Each  stately  queen  in  Yemen  found  verily  her  de 
sire. 

But  beauty  waned  and  smouldered, 
Love  languished  into  lust, 
28 


VANITAS 

The  centuries  have  mouldered 

Their  raven  hair  to  rust, 

The  desert  sand  is  over  them,  their  darkling  eyes 
are  dust. 

Their  bosoms'  pride  is  sunken 

Beneath  the  purple  pall, 
Their  smooth  round  limbs  are  shrunken, 

Through  clasp  and  anklet  crawl 
Lithe  little  snakes,  upon  their  tombs  lean  lizards 
twitch  and  sprawl. 


SPENSER'S   "FAERIE   QUEENE" 

LIKE  some  clear  well  of  water  in  the  waste, 
Some  magic  well  beside  the  weary  miles, 
This  beauty  is.   I  turn  aside  and  taste 
The  cool  Lethean  drink.   Suddenly  smiles 
A  leafy  world  upon  me,  —  peristyles 
Of  flickering  shade  !  The  hush  is  only  stirred 
Where  silver  runlets  brighten  down  the  aisles, 
From  pool  to  pool  rehearsing  one  low  word 
Answered  at  drowsy  intervals  by  a  lonely  bird. 

Along  the  rustling  arches  and  through  vast 
Dim  caverns  of  green  solitude  are  rolled 
The  wintry  leaves  of  all  the  withered  past, 
One  confraternity  of  common  mould. 
From  summers  perished,  autumn's  tarnished  gold 
Long  blown  to  dust  in  many  a  fallen  glade 
Is  reared  this  rumorous  temple  million-boled, 
This  shrine  of  peace,  this  whispering  colonnade 
Trembling  from  court  to  court  with  restless  sun 
and  shade. 

3O 


SPENSER  S  FAERIE  QUEENE 

And  here  a  while  may  weary  Fancy  turn 
And  loiter  by  the  rote  of  guttural  streams. 
Brushing  the  skirts  of  silence,  the  stirred  fern 
Breathes   softly  uhush"  and  "hush"  —  a  sound 

that  seems 

Only  the  fluttering  sigh  of  deepest  dreams. 
Here  comes  no  sound  or  sight  of  fevered  things  .  .  . 
No    sight    or    sound.     Green-gold    the  daylight 

beams, 

And  deep  in  the  heart  of  dusk  a  far  bird  sings 
Faint  as  the  feathered  beat  of  her  own  wavering 

wings. 


Calm  singer  in  the  chambers  of  the  dawn, 
Our  hearts  are  weary  singing  in  the  heat 
When  all  thy  dewy  matin  hopes  are  gone 
And  all  thy  raptures,  prophesyings  sweet, 
And  fair,  false  dreams  are  flying  in  defeat. 
O  thou,  the  poet's  poet,  from  thy  sky 
Of  ancient  morning  look  thou  down  and  greet 
Thy  brothers  of  the  noon  with  gentle  eye. 
Lift  them  from  out  the  dust.  Forlorn  and  low  they 
lie! 

31 


SPENSER  S  FAERIE  QUEENE 

Heart-easing  poet,  sing  to  us  like  bells 
Across  wide  waters  paven  by  the  stains 
Of  sunset ;  like  a  vagrant  breeze  that  swells 
And  rises  lingering,  fails  and  grows  and  wanes 
Along  a  listening  wood ;  like  April  rains 
In  which  the  anemones  of  dream  are  born. 
And  though  you  cannot  save  us  from  the  pains 
Of  life,  —  the  heat,  the  insensate  noise,  the  scorn,  — 
Here  may  we  find  our  rose,  forget  a  while  the 
thorn. 


MORNING   ROAD   SONG 

LET  me  have  my  fill  of  the  wide  blue  air 

And  the  emerald  cup  of  the  sea 
And  a  wandering  road  blown  bright  and  bare 

And  it  is  enough  for  me. 

The  love  of  a  man  is  a  goodly  thing 
And  the  love  of  a  woman  is  true, 

But  give  me  a  rollicking  song  to  sing 
And  a  love  that  is  always  new. 

For  I  am  a  rover  and  cannot  stay 

And  blithe  at  heart  am  I 
When  free  and  afoot  on  a  winding  way 

Beneath  the  great  blue  sky. 


33 


EVENING   ROAD    SONG 

IT  's  a  long  road  and  a  steep  road 

And  a  weary  road  to  climb. 
The  air  bites  chill  on  the  windy  hill. 

At  home  it  is  firelight  time. 

The  sunset  pales  .  .  .  along  the  vales 

The  cottage  candles  shine 
And  twinkle  through  the  early  dew. 

Thank  God  that  one  is  mine ! 

And  dark  and  late  she  '11  watch  and  wait 

Beyond  the  last  long  mile 
For  the  weary  beat  of  homing  feet 

With  her  wise  and  patient  smile, 


34 


WINDY   MORNING 

DAWN  with  a  jubilant  shout 

Leaps  on  the  shivering  sea 
And  puffs  the  last  pale  planet  out 
And  scatters  the  flame-bright  clouds  about 

Like  the  leaves  of  a  frost-bitten  tree. 


Does  a  gold  seed  split  the  rosy  husk  ? 
Nay,  a  sword  ...  a  shield  ...  a  spear ! 
The  kindler  of  all  fires  that  burn 
Deep  in  the  day's  cerulean  urn 
Rides  up  across  the  clear 
And  tramples  down  the  cowering  dusk 
Like  a  strong-browed  charioteer. 

Blow  out  and  far  away 

The  dim,  the  dull,  the  dun ; 
Prosper  the  crimson,  blight  the  gray, 
And  blow  us  clean  of  yesterday, 

Stern  morning  fair  begun, 
35 


WINDY  MORNING 

Till  the  earth  is  an  opal  bathed  in  dew, 
Flashing  with  emerald,  gold,  and  blue, 
Held  where  the  skies  wash  through  and 

through 
High  up  against  the  sun. 

(Catalina  Island,  1913) 


THE   GRAVE   OF   THOREAU 

BROWN  earth,  blue  sky,  and  solitude, — 

Three  things  he  loved,  three  things  he  wooed 

Lifelong ;  and  now  no  rhyme  can  tell 

How  ultimately  all  is  well 

With  his  wild  heart  that  worshipped  God's 

Epiphany  in  crumbling  sods 

And  like  an  oak  brought  all  its  worth 

Back  to  the  kindly  mother  earth. 

But  something  starry,  something  bold, 
Eludes  the  clutch  of  dark  and  mould,  — 
Something  that  will  not  wholly  die 
Out  of  the  old  familiar  sky. 
No  spell  in  all  the  lore  of  graves 
Can  still  the  plash  of  Walden  waves 
Or  wash  away  the  azure  stain 
Of  Concord  skies  from  heart  and  brain. 
Clear  psalteries  and  faint  citoles 
Only  recall  the  orioles 
Fluting  reveille  to  the  morn 
Across  the  acres  of  the  corn 
37 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THOREAU 

He  wanders  somewhere  lonely  still 
Along  a  solitary  hill 
And  sits  by  ever  lonelier  fires 
Remote  from  heaven's  bright  rampires, 
A  hermit  in  the  blue  Beyond 
Beside  some  dim  celestial  pond 
With  beans  to  hoe  and  wood  to  hew 
And  halcyon  days  to  loiter  through 
And  angel  visitors,  no  doubt, 
Who  shut  the  air  and  sunlight  out. 
But  he  who  scoffed  at  human  ways 
And,  finding  us  unworthy  of  praise. 
Sang  misanthropic  paeans  to 
The  muskrat  and  the  feverfew, 
Will  droop  those  archangelic  wings 
With  praise  of  how  we  manage  things, 
Prefer  his  Walden  tupelo 
To  even  the  Tree  of  Life,  and  grow 
A  little  wistful  looking  down 
Across  the  fields  of  Concord  town. 


EARTH-BORN 

No  lapidary's  heaven,  no  brazier's  hell  for  me, 
For  I  am  made  of  dust  and  dew  and  stream  and 

plant  and  tree; 

I  'm  close  akin  to  boulders,  I  am  cousin  to  the  mud, 
And  all  the  winds  of  all  the  skies  make  music  in 

my  blood. 

I  want  a  brook  and  pine  trees,  I  want  a  storm  to 

blow 
Loud-lunged  across  the  looming  hills  with  rain  and 

sleet  and  snow ; 
Don't  put  me  off  with  diadems  and  thrones  of 

chrysoprase,  — 
I  want  the  winds  of  northern  nights  and  wild  March 

days. 

My  blood  runs  red  with  sunset,  my  body  is  white 
with  rain, 

And  on  my  heart  auroral  skies  have  set  their  scar 
let  stain, 

39 


EARTH-BORN 

My  thoughts   are  green  with  spring  time,  among 

the  meadow  rue 
I  think  my  very  soul  is  growing  green  and  gold 

and  blue. 

What  will  be   left,   I  wonder,   when  Death  has 

washed  me  clean 
Of  dust  and  dew  and  sundown  and  April's  virgin 

green  ? 
If  there  's  enough  to  make  a  ghost,  I  '11  bring  it 

back  again 
To  the  little  lovely  earth  that  bore  me,  body,  soul, 

and  brain. 


"WHENCE   COMETH   MY   HELP" 

LET  me  sleep  among  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

when  I  die, 

In  the  murmur  of  the  pines  and  sliding  streams, 
Where  the  long  day  loiters  by 
Like  a  cloud  across  the  sky 

And  the  moon-drenched  night  is  musical  with 
dreams. 

Lay  me  down  within  a  canyon  of  the  mountains, 
far  away, 

In  a  valley  filled  with  dim  and  rosy  light, 
Where  the  flashing  rivers  play 
Out  across  the  golden  day 

And  a  noise  of  many  waters  brims  the  night. 

'    Let  me  lie  where  glinting  rivers  ramble  down  the 

slanted  glade 

Under  bending  alders  garrulous  and  cool, 
Where  they  gather  in  the  shade 
To  the  dazzling,  sheer  cascade, 

Where  they  plunge  and  sleep  within  the  pebbled 
pool. 

41 


WHENCE  COMETH   MY   HELP 

All  the  wisdom,  all  the  beauty,  I  have  lived  for 
unaware 

Came  upon  me  by  the  rote  of  highland  rills ; 
I  have  seen  God  walking  there 
In  the  solemn  soundless  air 

When  the  morning  wakened  wonder  in  the  hills. 

I  am  what  the  mountains  made  me  of  their  green 
and  gold  and  gray, 

Of  the  dawnlight  and  the  moonlight  and  the  foam. 
Mighty  mothers  far  away, 
Ye  who  washed  my  soul  in  spray, 

I  am  coming,  mother  mountains,  coming  home. 

When  I  draw  my  dreams  about  me,  when  I  leave 
the  darkling  plain 

Where  my  soul  forgets  to  soar  and  learns  to  plod, 
I  shall  go  back  home  again 
To  the  kingdoms  of  the  rain, 

To  the  blue  purlieus  of  heaven,  nearer  God. 

Where  the  rose  of  dawn  blooms  earlier  across  the 

miles  of  mist, 

Between  the  tides  of  sundown  and  moonrise, 
42 


WHENCE  COMETH  MY  HELP 

I  shall  keep  a  lover's  tryst 
With  the  gold  and  amethyst, 

With  the  stars  for  my  companions  in  the 
skies. 


UNITY 

WHERE  the  long  valley  slopes  away 
Five  miles  across  the  dreaming  day 
A  maple  sends  a  scarlet  prayer 
Into  the  still  autumnal  air, 
Three  golden-smouldering  hickories 
Are  fanned  to  flame  beneath  the  breeze 
And  one  great  crimson  oak  tree  fires 
The  sky-line  over  the  Concord  spires. 

In  worship  mystically  sweet 
The  rimy  asters  at  my  feet 
And  spiring  gentian  bells  that  burn 
Blue  incense  in  an  azure  urn 
Breathe  softly  from  the  aspiring  sod : 
"  This  is  our  utmost.  Take  it,  God,  — 
This  chant  of  green,  this  prayer  of  blue. 
This  is  the  best  thy  clay  can  do." 


O  lonely  heart  and  widowed  brain 
Sick  with  philosophies  that  strain 
44 


UNITY 

Body  from  spirit,  flesh  from  soul,  — 
Worship  with  asters  and  be  whole ; 
Live  simply  as  still  water  flows 
Till  soul  shall  border  brain  so  close 
No  blade  of  wit  can  thrust  between 
And  hearts  are  pure  as  grass  is  green; 
Pray  with  the  maple  tree  and  trust 
The  ancient  ritual  of  the  dust. 


VISTAS 

As  I  walked  through  the  rumorous  streets 
Of  the  wind-rustled,  elm-shaded  city 
Where  all  of  the  houses  were  friends 

And  the  trees  were  all  lovers  of  her, 
The  spell  of  its  old  enchantment 
Was  woven  again  to  subdue  me 
With  magic  of  flickering  shadows, 

Blown  branches  and  leafy  stir. 

Street  after  street,  as  I  passed, 
Lured  me  and  beckoned  me  onward 
With  memories  frail  as  the  odor 

Of  lilac  adrift  on  the  air. 
At  the  end  of  each  breeze-blurred  vista 
She  seemed  to  be  watching  and  waiting, 
With  leaf  shadows  over  her  gown 

And  sunshine  gilding  her  hair. 

For  there  was  a  dream  that  the  kind  God 
Withheld,  while  granting  us  many  — 
But  surely,  I  think,  we  shall  come 
Sometime,  at  the  end,  she  and  I, 
46 


VISTAS 

To  the  heaven  He  keeps  for  all  tired  souls, 

The  quiet  suburban  gardens 

Where  He  Himself  walks  in  the  evening 

Beneath  the  rose-dropping  sky 
And  watches  the  balancing  elm  trees 
Sway  in  the  early  starshine 
When  high  in  their  murmurous  arches 

The  night  breeze  ruffles  by. 


A  NUN 

ONE  glance  and  I  had  lost  her  in  the  riot 

Of  tangled  cries. 
She  trod  the  clamor  with  a  cloistral  quiet 

Deep  in  her  eyes 
As  though  she  heard  the  muted  music  only 

That  silence  makes 
Among  dim  mountain  summits  and  on  lonely 

Deserted  lakes. 

There  is  some  broken  song  her  heart  remembers 

From  long  ago, 
Some  love  lies  buried  deep,  some  passion's  embers 

Smothered  in  snow, 
Far  voices  of  a  joy  that  sought  and  missed  her 

Fail  now,  and  cease.  .  .  . 
And  this  has  given  the  deep  eyes  of  God's  sister 

Their  dreadful  peace. 


48 


LOVE   AMONG   THE   CLOVER 

"  IF  you  dare,"  she  said, 
And  oh,  her  breath  was  clover-sweet ! 
Clover  nodded  over  her, 
Her  lips  were  clover  red. 
Blackbirds  fluted  down  the  wind, 
The  bobolinks  were  mad  with  joy, 
The  wind  was  playing  in  her  hair, 
And  "  If  you  dare,"  she  said. 

Clover  billowed  down  the  wind 
Far  across  the  happy  fields, 
Clover  on  the  breezy  hills 
Leaned  along  the  skies 
And  all  the  nodding  clover  heads 
And  little  clouds  with  silver  sails 
And  all  the  heaven's  dreamy  blue 
Were  mirrored  in  her  eyes. 

Her  laughing  lips  were  clover-red 
When  long  ago  I  kissed  her  there 
49 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  CLOVER 

And  made  for  one  swift  moment  all 
My  heaven  and  earth  complete. 
I  Ve  loved  among  the  roses  since 
And  love  among  the  lilies  now, 
But  love  among  the  clover  .  .  . 
Her  breath  was  clover-sweet. 

0  wise,  wise-hearted  boy  and  girl 
Who  played  among  the  clover  bloom  ! 

1  think  I  was  far  wiser  then 
Than  now  I  dare  to  be. 

For  I  have  lost  that  Eden  now, 
I  cannot  find  my  Eden  now, 
And  even  should  I  find  it  now, 
I  Ve  thrown  away  the  key. 


CERTAIN  AMERICAN  POETS 

THEY  cowered  inert  before  the  study  fire 

While  mighty  winds  were  ranging  wide  and  free, 

Urging  their  torpid  fancies  to  aspire 

With  "  Euhoe !  Bacchus !  Have  a  cup  of  tea." 

They  tripped  demure  from  church  to  lecture-hall, 
Shunning  the  snare  of  farthingales  and  curls. 
Woman  they  thought  half  angel  and  half  doll, 
The  Muses'  temple  a  boarding-school  for  girls. 

Quaffing  Pierian  draughts  from  Boston  pump, 
They  toiled  to  prove  their  homiletic  art 
Could  match  with  nasal  twang  and  pulpit  thump 
In  maxims  glib  of  meeting-house  and  mart. 

Serenely  their  ovine  admirers  graze. 
Apollo  wears  frock-coats,  the  Muses  stays. 


51 


THE   SINGER'S   QUEST 

I  VE  been  wandering,  listening  for  a  song, 

Dreaming  of  a  melody,  all  my  life  long  .  .  . 

The  lilting  tune  that  God  sang  to  rock  the  tides 

asleep 
And  crooned  above  the  cradled  stars  before  they 

learned  to  creep. 

O,  there  was  laughter  in  it  and  many  a  merry  chime 

Before  He  had  turned  moralist,  grown  old  before 
His  time, 

And  He  was  happy,  trolling  out  His  great  blithe- 
hearted  tune, 

Before  He  slung  the  little  earth  beneath  the  sun  and 
moon. 

But  I  know  that  somewhere  that  song  is  rolling  on, 
Like  flutes  along  the  midnight,  like  trumpets  in  the 

dawn; 

It  throbs  across  the  sunset  and  stirs  the  poplar  tree 
And  rumbles  in  the  long  low  thunder  of  the  sea. 


52 


THE  SINGER'S  QUEST 

First-love  sang  me  one  note  and  heart-break  taught 

me  two, 
A  child  has  told    me  three  notes,  and  soon  I  '11 

know  it  through ; 
And  when  I  stand  before  the  Throne  I  '11  hum  it 

low  and  sly, 
Watching  for  a  great  light  of  welcome  in  His  eye  ... 

"  Put  a  white  raiment  on  him  and  a  harp  into  his 

hand 
And  golden  sandals  on  his  feet  and  tell  the  saints  to 

stand 
A  little  farther  off  unless  they  wish  to  hear  the 

truth, 
For  this  blessed  lucky  sinner  is  going  to  sing  about 

my  youth ! " 


DEAD   MAGDALEN 

COVER  her  over  with  pallid  white  roses, 

Her  who  had  none  but  red  roses  to  wear  ; 
All  that  her  last  grim  lover  bestows  is 

Virginal  white  for  her  bosom  and  hair. 
Cover  the  folds  of  the  glimmering  sheet 
Clear  from  her  eyelids  weary  and  sweet 
Down  to  her  nevermore  wayward  feet. 
Then  They  may  find  her  fair. 

Lovingly,  tenderly,  let  us  array  her 

Fair  as  a  bride  for  the  way  she  must  go, 
Leaving  no  lingering  stain  to  betray  her, 

Letting  them  see  we  have  sullied  her  so. 
Over  the  curve  of  the  fair  young  breast 
Leave  we  this  maidenly  lily  to  rest 
White  as  the  snow  in  its  snow-soft  nest. 
Now  They  will  never  know. 


54 


THE   ADVENTURER 

HE  came  not  in  the  red  dawn 
Nor  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 

And  all  the  long  bright  highway 
Lay  lonely  to  the  moon, 

And  nevermore,  we  know  now, 
Will  he  come  wandering  down 

The  breezy  hollows  of  the  hills 
That  gird  the  quiet  town. 

For  he  has  heard  a  voice  cry 
A  starry-faint  "Ahoy!" 

Far  up  the  wind,  and  followed 
Unquestioning  after  joy. 

But  we  are  long  forgetting 

The  quiet  way  he  went, 
With  looks  of  love  and  gentle  scorn 

So  sweetly,  subtly  blent. 


55 


THE  ADVENTURER 

We  cannot  cease  to  wonder, 
We  who  have  loved  him,  how 

He  fares  along  the  windy  ways 
His  feet  must  travel  now. 

But  we  must  draw  the  curtain 
And  fasten  bolts  and  bars 

And  talk  here  in  the  firelight 
Of  him  beneath  the  stars. 


THE   GOLDFINCH 

DOWN  from  the  sky  on  a  sudden  he  drops 
Into  the  mullein  and  juniper  tops, 
Flushed  from  his  bath  in  the  midsummer  shine 
Flooding  the  meadowland,  drunk  with  the  wine 
Spilled  from  the  urns  of  the  blue,  like  a  bold 
Sky-buccaneer  in  his  sable  and  gold. 

Lightly  he  sways  on  the  pendulous  stem, 
Vividly  restless,  a  fluttering  gem, 
Then  with  a  flash  of  bewildering  wings 
Dazzles  away  up  and  down,  and  he  sings 
Clear  as  a  bell  at  each  dip  as  he  flies 
Bounding  along  on  the  wave  of  the  skies. 

Sunlight  and  laughter,  a  winged  desire, 
Motion  and  melody  married  to  fire, 
Lighter  than  thistle-tuft  borne  on  the  wind, 
Frailer  than  violets,  how  shall  we  find 
Words  that  will  match  him,  discover  a  name 
Meet  for  this  marvel,  this  lyrical  flame  ? 
57 


THE  GOLDFINCH 

How  shall  we  fashion  a  rhythm  to  wing  with  him, 
Find  us  a  wonderful  music  to  sing  with  him 
Fine  as  his  rapture  is,  free  as  the  rollicking 
Song  that  the  harlequin  drops  in  his  frolicking 
Dance  through  the  summer  sky,  singing  so  merrily 
High  in  the  burning  blue,  winging  so  airily  ? 

(Mont  Vernon,  New  Hampshire) 


ORIOLES 

WINGS  in  a  blur  of  gold 
High  in  the  elm  trees, 
Looping  like  tawny  flame 

Through  the  green  shadows, 
Now  at  an  airy  height 
Pausing  a  heart  beat 
Quite  at  the  twig's  tip, 

Pendulous,  bending. 

Golden  against  the  blue, 
Gold  in  an  azure  cup, 
Golden  wine  bubbling 

Out  of  blue  goblets  .  .   . 
Cool,  smooth  and  reedy  notes 
Fly  low  across  the  noon 
While  through  the  drowsy  heat 

Drums  the  cicada. 

Tropical  wing  and  song 
Bound  from  Bolivia  .   .   . 
59 


ORIOLES 

All  the  blue  Amazon 

Sings  to  New  England. 
Flute-noted  orioles, 
Flame-coated  orioles, 
Gold-throated  orioles, 
Spirits  of  summer. 


BY   A  MOUNTAIN   STREAM 

WHERE  the  rivulet  swept  by  a  sycamore  root 
With  a  turbulent  voice  and  a  hurrying  foot, 
I  bent  by  the  water  and  spoke  in  my  dream 
To  the  wavering,  restless,  unlingering  stream : 
"  Oh,  turbulent  rivulet  hastening  past, 
For  what  wonderful  goal  do  you  hope  at  the  last 
That  never  you  pause  in  the  shimmering  green 
Of  the  undulant  shade  where  the  sycamores  lean 
Or  rest  in  the  moss-curtained,  cool  dripping  halls 
Hidden  under  the  veils  of  your  musical  falls 
Or  loiter  at  peace  by  the  tremulous  fern  — 
White  wandering  waters  that  never  return  ? " 

And  I  dreamed  by  the  rivulet's  wavering  side 
That  a  myriad  ripple  of  voices  replied : 
"  Aloft  on  the  mountain,  afar  on  the  steep, 
A  voice  that  we  knew  cried  aloud  in  our  sleep, 
4  Come,  hasten  ye  down  to  the  vale  and  to  me, 
Your  begetter,  destroyer,  preserver,  the  Sea ! ' 
61 


BY   A  MOUNTAIN  STREAM 

We  must  carry  our  feebleness  down  to  the  Strong, 
We  must  mingle  us  deep  in  the  Whole,  and  ere 

long 

All  the  numberless  host  of  the  heaven  shall  ride 
With   the   pale   Lady   Moon   on  our  slumbering 

tide." 

The  voices  swept  out  and  away  through  the  door 
Of  the  canyon,  and  on  to  the  infinite  shore. 

Oh,  vast  in  thy  destiny,  slender  of  span, 
Wild  rivulet,  how  thou  art  like  to  a  man ! 

(  Cold  Brook,  California,  1912) 


APRIL 

(  To  Bliss  Carman) 

THERE  's  a  murmur  in  the  patient  forest  alleys, 
There  's  an  elfin  echo  whispering  through  the 
trees, 

Lonely  pipes  are  lifted  softly  in  the  valleys  .  .  . 
All  the  air  is  filled  with  waking  melodies. 

From  the  crucibles  of  Erebus  and  Endor, 
Flame  of  emerald  has  fallen  by  the  rills, 

And  it  flashes  up  the  slope  and  sits  in  splendor 
In  the  glory  of  the  beauty  of  the  hills. 

Now  my  heart  will  yearn  again  to  voice  its  wonder 
And  my  song  must  sing  again  between  the  words 

With  a  mutter  of  unutterable  thunder 
And  a  twitter  of  inimitable  birds. 

(April,  1903) 


63 


A   CHAPEL   BY  THE   SEA 

(  To  Paul  Dow  ling} 

THERE  's  a  mouldering  mountain  chapel  gazing  out 
across  the  sea 

From  beneath  the  lisping  shelter  of  a  eucalyptus  tree 

That  has  drawn  the  ancient  silence  from  the  moun 
tain's  heart  and  fills 

And  subdues  a  fevered  spirit  with  the  quiet  of  the 
hills. 

For  silvery  in  the  morning  the  chimes  go  dropping 

down 
Across  the  vales  of  purple  mist  that  gird  the  island 

town 

And  golden  in  the  evening  the  vesper  bells  again 
Call  back  the  weary  fishing  folk  along  the  leafy  lane. 

I  'd  like  to  be  the  father  priest  and  call  the  folk  to 

prayer 
Up  through  the  winding  dewy  ways  that  climb  the 

morning  air, 

64 


A  CHAPEL  BY  THE  SEA 

And  send  them  down  at  even-song  with  all   the 

silent  sky 
Of  early  starshine  teaching  them  far  deeper  truth 

than  I. 

I  'd  like  to  lie  at  rest  there  beneath  a  mossy  stone 
Above  the  crooning  sea's  low  distant  monotone, 
Lulled  by  the  lisping  whisper  of  the  eucalyptus  tree 
That  shades  my  mountain  chapel  gazing  out  across 
the  sea. 

{Avalon,  Christmas  Day,  1913) 


EPHEMEROS 

A  FIREFLY  cried  across  the  night : 
"  O  lofty  star,  O  streaming  light, 
Clear  eye  of  heaven,  immortal  lamp 
Set  high  above  the  dew  and  damp, 
Thou  great  high-priest  to  heaven's  King 
And  chief  of  all  the  choirs  that  sing 
Their  golden,  endless  antiphons 
Of  praise  before  the  eternal  thrones  — 
Hear  thou  my  prayer  of  worship  !  Thine 
The  glory,  all  the  dimness  mine. 
I  am  a  feeble  glimmering  spark 
Vagrant  along  the  lower  dark." 

The  star  called  down  from  heaven's  roof 
With  a  humble  heart  and  mild  reproof : 
"  The  Power  that  made,  the  Breath  that  blew 
My  fire  aglow  has  kindled  you 
With  equal  love  and  equal  pain 
And  equal  toil  of  heart  and  brain. 


66 


EPHEMEROS 

For  I  am  only  a  wandering  light, 
Your  elder  comrade  in  the  night. 
We  are  two  sisters,  you  and  I, 
And  when  we  two  burn  out  and  die 
It  will  be  hardly  known  from  far 
Which  was  the  firefly,  which  the  star." 


WANDERLUST 

(  To  Willard) 

THE  birds  were  beating  north  again  with  faint  and 
starry  cries 

Along  their  ancient  highway  that  spans  the  mid 
night  skies, 

And  out  across  the  rush  of  wings  my  heart  went 
crying  too, 

Straight  for  the  morning's  windy  walls  and  lakes  of 
misted  blue. 

They  gave  me  place  among  them,  for  well  they 

understood 
The  magic  wine  of  April  working  madness  in  my 

blood, 
And  we  were  kin  in  thought  and  dream  as  league 

by  league  together 
We  kept  that  pace  of  straining  wings  across  the 

starry  weather. 


68 


WANDERLUST 

The  dim  blue  tides  of  Fundy,  green  slopes  of  Lab 
rador 

Slid  under  us  ...  our  course  was  set  for  earth's  re 
motest  shore ; 

But  tingling  through  the  ether  and  searching  star  by 
star 

A  lonely  voice  went  crying  that  drew  me  down 
from  far. 

Farewell,   farewell,   my  brothers!  I   see  you  far 

away 
Go  drifting  down  the  sunset  across  the  last  green 

bay, 
But  I  have  found  the  haven  of  this  lonely  heart  and 

wild  — 
My  falconer  has  called  me  —  I  am  prisoned  by  a 

child. 

(Easter  Dayy  1916) 


THE  IDEAL 

SERENELY,  from  her  mountain  height  sublime, 
She  mocks  my  hopeless  labor  as  I  creep 
Each  day  a  day's  strength  farther  from  the  deep 
And  nearer  to  her  side  for  which  I  climb. 
So  may  she  mock  when  for  the  sad  last  time 
I  fall,  my  face  still  upward,  upon  sleep, 
With  faithful  hands  still  yearning  up  the  steep 
In  patient  and  pathetic  pantomime. 

I  am  content,  O  ancient,  young-eyed  child 
Of  love  and  longing.  Pity  not  our  wars 
Of  frail-spun  flesh,  and  keep  thee  undented 
By  all  our  strife  that  only  breaks  and  mars. 
But  let  us  see  from  far  thy  footing,  wild 
And  wayward  still  against  the  eternal  stars ! 


7O 


THE   FIRST   CHRISTIAN 

A  LITTLE  wandering  wind  went  up  the  hill. 
It  had  a  lonely  voice  as  though  it  knew 
What  it  should  find  before  it  came  to  where 
The  broken  body  of  him  that  had  been  Christ 
Hung  in  the  ruddy  glow.  A  bowshot  down 
The  bleak  rock-shouldered  hill  the  soldiery 
Had  piled  a  fire,  and  when  the  searching  wind 
Came  stronger  from  the  distant  sea  and  dashed 
The  shadows  and  the  gleam  together,  songs 
Of  battle  and  lust  were  blown  along  the  slope 
Mingled  with  clash  of  swords  on  cuisse  and  shield. 
But  of  the  women  sitting  by  the  cross 
Even  she  whose  life  had  been  as  gravely  sweet 
And  sheltered  as  a  lily's  did  not  flinch. 
Her  face  was  buried  in  her  shrouding  cloak. 
And  she  who  knew  too  sorrowfully  well 
The  cruelty  and  bitterness  of  life 
Heard  not.  She  sat  erect,  her  shadowy  hair 
Blown  back  along  the  darkness  and  her  eyes 
That  searched  the  distant  spaces  of  the  night 
Splendid  and  glowing  with- an  inward  joy. 
71 


THE   FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

And  at  the  darkest  hour  came  three  or  four 
From  round  the  fire  and  would  have  driven  them 

thence; 

But  one  who  knew  them,  gazing  in  their  eyes, 
Said :  u  Nay.  It  is  his  mother  and  his  love, 
The  scarlet  Magdalena.  Let  them  be." 
So,  in  the  gloom  beside  that  glimmering  cross, 
Beneath  the  broken  body  of  him  they  loved, 
They  wept  and  watched  —  the  lily  and  the  rose. 

At  last  the  deep,  low  voice  of  Magdalen, 

Toned  like  a  distant  bell,  broke  on  the  hush  : 

"  We  are  so  weak !   What  can  poor  women  do  ? 

So  pitifully  frail !  God  pity  us ! 

How  he  did  pity  us !   He  understood  .  .  . 

Out  of  his  own  great  strength  he  understood 

How  it  might  feel  to  be  so  very  weak  .  .  . 

To  be  a  tender  lily  of  the  field, 

To  be  a  lamb  lost  in  the  windy  hills 

Far   from  the   fold   and    from    the   shepherd's 

voice, 

To  be  a  child  with  no  strength,  only  love. 
And  ah,  he  knew,  if  ever  a  man  can  know, 
What  't  is  to  be  a  woman  and  to  live, 
72 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

Strive  how  she  may  to  out-soar  and  overcome, 
Tied  to  this  too  frail  body  of  too  fair  earth ! 

"  Oh,  had  I  been  a  man  to  shield  him  then 
In  his  great  need  with  loving  strong  right  arm ! 
One  of  the  twelve  —  ha  !  —  of  that  noble  twelve 
That  ran  away,  and  two  made  mock  of  him 
Or  else  betrayed  him  ere  they  ran  ?  Ah  no ! 
And  yet,  a  man's  strength  with  a  woman's  love  .  .  . 
That  might    have  served  him  somewhat  ere  the 
end." 

Then  with  a  weary  voice  the  mother  said : 

"  What  can  we  do  but  only  watch  and  weep, 

Sit  with  weak  hands  and  watch  while  strong  men 

rend 

And  break  and  ruin,  bringing  all  to  nought 
The  beauty  we  have  nearly  died  to  make  ? 

"  It  is  not  true  to  say  that  he  was  strong. 
He  did  not  claim  the  kingdom  that  was  his, 
He  did  not  even  seek  for  wealth  and  power, 
He  did  not  win  a  woman's  love  and  get 
Strong  children  to  live  after  him,  and  all 
73 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

That  strong  men  strive  for  he  passed  heedless  by. 

Because  that  he  was  weak  I  loved  him  so  ... 

For  that  and  for  his  soft  and  gentle  ways, 

The  tender  patient  calling  of  his  voice 

And  that  dear  trick  of  smiling  with  his  eyes. 

Ah  no  !  I  have  had  dreams  —  a  mother's  dreams  — 

But  now  I  cannot  dream  them  any  more. 

"  I  sorrowed  little  as  the  happy  days 

Sped  by  and  by  that  still  the  fair-haired  lad 

Who  lay  at  first  beside  me  in  the  stall, 

The  cattle  stall  outside  Jerusalem, 

Found  no  great  throne  to  dazzle  his  mother's  eye. 

He  was  so  good  a  workman  .  .  .  axe  and  saw 

Did  surely  suit  him  better  than  a  sword. 

I  was  content  if  only  he  would  wed 

Some  village  girl  of  little  Nazareth 

And  get  me  children  with  his  own  slow  smile, 

Deep  thoughtful  eyes  and  golden  kingly  brow. 

"  It  seems  but  yesterday  he  played  among 
The  shavings  strewn  on  Joseph's  work-shop  floor. 
The  sunlight  of  the  morning  slanted  through 
The  window  — -  't  was  in  springtime  —  and  across 
74 


THE  FIRST   CHRISTIAN 

The  bench  where  Joseph  sat,  and  then  it  lay 
In  golden  glory  on  the  boy's  bright  hair 
And  on  the  shavings  that  were  golden  too. 
I  saw  him  through  the  open  door.   I  thought, 
'  My  little  king  has  found  his  golden  crown.' 
But  unto  Joseph  I  said  nought  at  all. 

"  But  now,  ah  me !  he  won  no  woman's  love, 
Nor  loved  one  either  as  most  men  call  love, 
And  so  he  had  no  child  and  he  is  gone 
And  I  am  left  without  him  and  alone." 

So  by  her  son's  pale  broken  body  mourned 
The  mother,  dreaming  on  departed  days. 
And  as  with  one  who  looks  into  the  west, 
Watching  the  embers  of  the  outburned  day 
Crumble  and  cool  and  slowly  droop  and  fade, 
And  will  not  take  the  darkling  eastward  path 
Where  lies  his  way  until  the  last  faint  glow 
Has  left  the  sky  and  the  early  stars  shine  forth, 
So  did  her  dream  cling  to  the  ruined  past 
And  all  the  joy  they  had  in  Nazareth 
Before  the  years  of  doubt  and  trouble  came. 
Then,  while  loud  laughter  sounded  up  the  hill 
75 


THE  FIRST   CHRISTIAN 

Where  yet  that  ribald  crew  sang  o'er  the  wine, 
She  bowed  her  head  above  her  cradling  arms 
And  softly  sang,  as  to  herself,  the  songs 
Of  Israel  that  once  had  served  her  well 
To  soothe  the  wakeful  child. 

But  Magdalen 

Arose  upon  her  feet  and  tossed  her  cloak 
Back  from  the  midnight  of  her  wind-blown  hair 
And  lifted  up  her  eyes  into  the  dark 
As  though,  beyond  this  circle  of  all  our  woe, 
To  read  a  hidden  meaning  in  the  stars. 

"  Aye,  it  is  dark,"  she  said.    "  The  night  comes 

on. 

He  was  the  sunshine  of  our  little  day. 
The  clouds  unsettled  softly  and  we  saw 
Ladders  of  glory  climbing  into  light 
Unspeakable,  with  dazzling  interchange 
Of  Majesties  and  Powers.  But  suddenly 
The  tides  of  darkness  whelm  us  round  again 
And  this  drear  dwindled  earth   becomes  once 

more 

What  it  has  ever  been  —  a  core  of  shade 
76 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

And  steaming  vapor  spinning  in  the  dark, 
A  deeper  clot  of  blackness  in  the  void ! 

"  The  night  comes  on.    'T  is  hard  to  pierce  the 

dark. 

And  if  to  me  who  loved  him,  whom  he  loved  — 
Though  well  thou  sayest,  4  Not  as  most  men  call 

love '  - 

Far  harder  will  it  be  for  those  who  hold 
In  memory  no  gesture  of  his  hand, 
No  haunting  echo  of  his  patient  voice, 
Nor  that  dear  trick  of  smiling  with  his  eyes. 

"  O  ceaseless  tramp  of  armies  down  the  years ! 
O   maddened  cries   of   c  Christ '    and    '  Son   of 

Mary ! ' 
While    o'er    the   crying    screams    the    hurtling 

death 

Thou  gentle  shepherd  of  the  quiet  fold, 
Mild  man  of  sorrows,  hast  thou  done  this  thing, 
Who  earnest  not  to  bring  peace  but  a  sword  ? 
Ah  no,  not  thou,  but  only  our  childishness, 
The  pitifully  childish  heart  of  man 
That  cannot  learn  and  know  beyond  a  little. 
77 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

14  The  priests  and  captains  and  the  little  kings 
Will  tear  each  other  at  the  throat  and  cry : 
4  Thus  said  he,  lived  he ;  swear  it  or  thou  diest ! ' 
But  these  shall  pass  and  perish  in  the  dark 
While  the  lorn  strays  and  outcasts  of  the  world, 
The  souls  whose  pain  has  seared  their  pride  to  dust 
And  burned  a  way  for  love  to  enter  in  — 
These  only  know  his  meaning  and  shall  live. 

44  So  is  it  as  with  one  whose  feet  have  trod 
The  valley  of  the  shadow,  who  has  seen 
His  dearest  lowered  into  endless  night. 
All  music  holds  for  him  a  deeper  strain 
Of  nobler  meaning,  and  the  flush  of  dawn, 
High  wind  at  noonday,  crumbling  sunset  gold, 
And  the  dear  pathetic  look  of  children's  eyes  — 
All  beauty  pierces  closer  to  his  heart. 

"  Yea,  thou  thyself,  pale  youth  upon  the  cross  — 
The  godlike  strength  of  thee  was  rooted  deep 
In  human  weakness.  Even  she  who  bore  thee, 
Seeing  the  man  too  nearly,  missed  the  God, 
Erring  as  fits  the  mother.  Some  will  say 
In  coming  years,  I  feel  it  in  my  heart, 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

That  thou  didst  face  thy  death  a  conscious  God, 
Knowing  almighty  hands  were  stretched  to  snatch 
And  lift  thee  from  the  greedy  clutching  grave. 
Falsely !   Forgetting  dark  Gethsemane,  — 
Not  knowing,  as  I  know,  what  doubt  assailed 
Thy  human  heart  until  the  latest  breath. 
Ah,  what  a  trumpery  death,  what  mockery 
And  mere  theatric  mimicry  of  pain, 
If  thou  didst  surely  know  thou  couldst  not  die ! 
Thou  didst  not  know.  And  whether  even  now 
Thy  straying  ghost,  like  some  great  moth  of  night 
Blown  seaward  through  the  shadow,  flies  and  drifts 
Along  dim  coasts  and  headlands  of  the  dark, 
A  homeless  wanderer  up  and  down  the  void, 
Or  whether  indeed  thou  art  enthroned  above 
In  light  and  life,  I  know  not.  This  I  know  — 
That  in  the  moment  of  sheer  certainty 
My  soul  will  die. 

"  No  !  On  thy  spirit  lay 
All  the  dark  weight  and  mystery  of  pain 
And  all  our  human  doubt  and  flickering  hope, 
Deathless  despairs  and  treasuries  of  tears, 
Gropings  of  spirit  blindfold  by  the  flesh 
79 


THE   FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

And   grapplings  with   the  fiend.     Else  were  thy 

death 
Less  like  a  God's  than  even  mine  may  be. 

"  Thou  broken  mother  who  canst  see  in  him 
Only  the  quiet  man,  the  needful  child, 
And  most  of  all  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 
Let  it  suffice  thee.  Thy  reward  is  great. 
Who  loveth  God  that  never  hath  loved  man  ? 
Who  knoweth  man  but  cometh  to  know  God  ? 
Thou  sacred,  sorrowing  mother,  canst  thou  learn  — 
Thou  who  hast  gone  so  softly  in  God's  sight  — 
Of  me,  the  scarlet  woman  of  old  days  ? 
Come,  let  us  talk  together,  thou  and  I. 
Apart,  we  see  him  darkly,  through  a  glass  ; 
Together,  we  shall  surely  see  aright. 
Bring  thou  thine  innocence,  thy  stainless  soul, 
And  I  will  bring  deep  lore  of  suffering, 
My  dear-bought  wisdom  of  defeat  and  pain. 
For  out  of  these  may  come,  believe  it  thou, 
Sanctities  not  like  thine,  but  fit  to  bear 
The  bitter  storms  and  whirlwinds  of  this  world. 
Aye,  out  of  evil  often  springeth  good, 
And  sweetest  honey  from  the  lion's  mouth. 
80 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

And  that  he  knew.  That  very  thing  he  meant 
When  he  withdrew  me  from  the  pits  of  shame. 
'T  is  I  who  see  God  shining  through  the  man. 
I  see  the  deity,  the  godlike  strength 
In  his  supreme  capacity  for  pain. 
Nor  have  I  known  the  cruel  love  of  men 
These  many  years  to  err  when  now  I  say 
This  man  loved  not  like  men  but  like  a  God. 
Thou  broken  mother,  weep  not  for  the  child, 
Mourn  not  the  man.  Acclaim  the  risen  Christ !  " 

She  turned  and  touched  the  other  lovingly, 
Then  stooped  and  peered  into  her  darkened  face. 
The  mother  slept,  forspent  and  overborne 
By  weariness  and  woe  too  great  to  bear. 

She  gently  smiled.  "  So  it  is  best,"  she  said. 

Tall  and  elate  she  stood,  her  shadowy  hair 
Blown  back  along  the  darkness  and  her  eyes 
That  searched  the  distant  spaces  of  the  night 
Splendid  and  glowing  with  an  inward  joy. 
And  over  that  dark  hill  of  tragedy 
And  triumph,  victory  and  dull  despair, 
81 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTIAN 

Over  the  sleeping  Roman  soldier)-, 
Over  the  three  stark  crosses  and  the  two 
Who  loved  Him  most,  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Shone  still  and  clear  the  great  compassionate  stars. 


THE    END 


NOTE 

SOME  of  these  poems  have  been  published  before  in  The 
Sunset  Magazine,  The  Smart  Set,  Munseyys  Magazine, 
The  Bellman,  The  International,  The  Over  land  Monthly, 
The  Youttf  s  Companion,  Poetry  —  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  The  Harvard  Graduates'  Magazine,  The  Book 
News  Monthly,  Current  Opinion,  The  Literary  Digest, 
The  Boston  Transcript,  and  the  Anthologies  of  Magazine 
Verse  for  1915  and  1916.  I  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of 
those  publications  in  which  they  originally  appeared  for 
permission  to  reprint. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


I'MVKKSITY   OF   CAL1  !•'<  >RN  I  A    Ur.KAKY 
BERKELEY 


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